What Cannot Be Expressed
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: A series of one-shots based on music that inspires me. Part 4: Kryptonite - After 2,000 years buried beneath Cardiff, Jack crumbles; all Ianto can do is remind him what it means to feel. Jack/Ianto. Very angsty, yet hopeful - rated "M" for a reason.
1. The Beauty Underneath

**What Cannot Be Expressed**

**_"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul."_**

**~ Anon.**

This is a new series of one-shots based upon songs that inspire me in my life. I have always found music to be one of the great truth-tellers in my life, the one thing which allows me to express who I truly am, and so I felt it was the ideal medium through which to explore the truth of Torchwood. These one-shots will be likely to revolve predominantly around Ianto Jones, and his relationships with Jack and the other characters.

I will try and update at least once a week, but it depends entirely on whether I find a song that inspires me. If I go too long without updating, give me a shake and I'll put the iPod on shuffle.

The rating will probably change depending on what mood I'm in, but I'm rating it overall "T" just to be safe.

Disclaimer: If Torchwood was mine, characters would be properly developed before they are killed off. As you can see, I do not own Torchwood.

* * *

**Title: The Beauty Underneath  
Rated: T  
Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Jack/Ianto  
Warnings: Heavily implied M/M relationship.  
Summary: Ianto Jones was a beautiful man...a man whose beauty was defined by his inner ugliness.  
A/N: This is a song from "The Phantom of the Opera" sequel, "Love Never Dies". It is copyrighted to Andrew Lloyd Webber. I do, however, own the CD and have tickets for the show in April. **

**The Beauty Underneath**

**(From the Musical "Love Never Dies" by Andrew Lloyd Webber)**

**_"Do you find yourself beguiled by the dangerous and wild, do you feed off the need for the beauty underneath?"_**

Ianto Jones was a beautiful man.

Jack had seen this the very first moment he saw him; hair matted with crimson, dark jacket and jeans hugging tightly to the contours of his body, smirking in that way that said "yes, me, look at me, I'm the one you want."

And then, all those days with that suited Adonis hovering in the corners of his peripheral vision; Jack hadn't been able to help himself staring at the sheer gorgeousness of the young man. The way Ianto held himself, the upright posture and the strict tightness in his shoulders, the way those slim finger smoothed unconsciously, nervously over the silken material of his tie, excited Jack's sensibilities. When the flash of charcoal-material caught in the corner of his eye, Jack's first (and, let's be honest, only logical) reaction was to turn and stare at that beauty before him.

It was a sophisticated kind of beauty – one which Jack soon learned could be stripped away to find the rough-hewn beauty underneath.

For, beneath his cool exterior, Ianto held a passion that very few people got to see; a deep seated loyalty and an ability to love that verged on obsession. As shiny as a crystal on the outside, the young Welshman was as jagged and unrefined as broken glass within himself, glinting dangerously in the light of Jack's eyes.

Stripped of his suits and his butler character-model, Ianto's rough edges refracted the glare of the Captain's gaze, shining in a rainbow of shining colour and brightness, transforming that cool glow into an awe-inspiring sight. On those nights when Jack held him tight, moved with him and against him, the lights and colours blinded him and yet urged him on, keen to discover the fiery core from which those flames were born.

It was a beauty that was ugly almost in its intensity, and yet more brilliant for its conviction.

The suit, the tie, the coffee; traditional beauty, the beauty of the chiselled jaw and the Mills and Boon novel; was all very well and good in Jack's eyes. It sparked the interest, turned the eye in the direction, whetted the appetite of lust and desire.

But that naked fury, that harsh, chaotic ugliness that hovered tentatively beneath the surface, ready to break free, was something altogether different. It was what kept Jack clinging to him as the fire in their bellies cooled, curled inwards towards him and clenching him tight against his chest, eager to meld with him and absorb some of that fire.

It was a beauty that danced on the tip of Jack's senses, that made him listen to heartbeat and hear a symphony, made him want to feel, and taste, and map every single inch of Ianto's body and mind.

And deep down, Jack acknowledged a painful truth.

Had Ianto merely been the sum of his exterior parts, that beautiful young man in the charcoal suit, than Jack would have taken what he could and run. Because he was, inherently, a bastard; he was rough and unrefined, a man built to deflect and withstand, whose smooth edge had been eroded steadily away by the sands of time. Ianto Jones could so easily have been just another shiny new toy, beautiful to behold and beautiful to touch, but discarded oh-so-easily after the sharp edges of Jack Harknesss had scratched the paintwork.

But Ianto Jones was something different – he was quiet, yet loud, discreet, yet extrovert, a man of logical reasoning who was simultaneously driven by a selfish passion. Ianto was a man of beauty whose beauty derived from his inner ugliness; it was what made him intriguing and all-consuming.

Ianto's jagged edges deflected the spears of Jack's own exterior; they fought against one another before slotting together, simultaneously hating and loving. They clung to one another, unable to let go. And as Jack's gaze followed Ianto around the room he could almost feel the searing heart of those edges against his own skin, his nerve-endings on fire as he relished the feeling of connection and interaction that he had not let himself feel for a long time.

Oh yes, Ianto Jones was a beautiful man.

* * *

**Constructive Criticism is always welcomed, and I always use your words and advice to improve my work. I believe you can never stop bettering yourself! **

**Thank you for reading! **


	2. In My Defence

**What Cannot Be Expressed**

**_"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul."_**

**~ Anon.**

**

* * *

**

**Title: In My Defence  
Rated: T  
Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones  
Warnings: Angsty!Singing!Ianto  
Summary: Ianto can't change the world – sometimes all he can do is sing to cover up the screaming in his heart.  
A/N: This is a song by Freddie Mercury, my ultimate idol. It was released as a "Farewell Edition" after his death, and remains very close to my heart – it has always inspired me, and it has now inspired me to try and uncover more about the secret life of Ianto Jones. This (singing uncaringly) is what I do when the world becomes too much, and I identify with Ianto on so many other levels that it seemed very fitting to his character that he would have a similar method of dealing with his pain. **

**

* * *

**

**In My Defence**

"**_I'm just a singer with song…how can I try to right the wrong?"_**

Ianto leans his head back against the soft material of his couch, a cushion propped under his neck for support and his arms crossed protectively over his chest – though what exactly he is supposed to be protecting himself from he hasn't quite worked out.

The stereo positioned in the corner of the room thrums a steady background beat into the air, as constant as a heartbeat and as reassuring as any kind word or touch. Ianto can feel the reverberations travel through his body, creating a gentle vibration all the way from the points of his toes to the thinnest tip of his hair. It's loud, and rash, and the lyrics are lost, drowning underneath the scream of the bass guitar and the _punch-punch-punch_ of snare drums.

But Ianto doesn't care for its quality.

All Ianto wants to do is sit and lose himself in the music, feel it in the very marrow of his bones and hear it singing through the cells in his blood. Maybe, he tells himself, just maybe, if he turns it up loudly enough he will be able to cover up the angry buzzing behind the sockets of his eyes.

Sometimes, it's enough to banish the thoughts from his head.

But, today, it's not enough. The voices in his head are louder than the music in the air; the _thumpa-thumpa_ of the baseline isn't enough to cover the persistent chanting echoing through his mind.

_You could have done more._

_Why didn't you try harder? _

_Why not?_

_Your fault. _

_Pathetic. _

The voices run around and around in his head, repeating their string of hurt and uncertainty like a mantra. They take on different roles, different voices, buoyed up by the steady baseline of the music and riding the waves of the tune like a child on a fairground ride.

So Ianto opens his mouth and sings.

He's not singing in tune – he's not even sure that he's singing the right words. All he knows is that the sound coming out of his mouth is drowning out the scream in his heart.

He sings along to the tune, leaning his head further back on the arm of his couch to allow as much air into his lungs as possible, letting it flow through his windpipe and out into the pulsating space around him. It's incredibly liberating to abandon the persona he projects, that of the quiet coffee-boy, and let every single emotion flow out of him; the sound seems to be coming from his very core, a harsh sound that scratches along his throat, the pain as freeing as the sound it creates.

Perhaps in another scenario, Ianto would be a reasonable singer. Perhaps he would be traversing the clubs with a guitar slung on his back, singing his heart into the microphone and out into the audience. He had some training as a youngster – he knows how to make the right sounds.

But the right sounds don't always produce the right feeling.

Ianto Jones cannot change the world. Some of the things he sees dart through his mind like a spear, ripping persistently at the roots of his sanity; terrible things, death and pain, anger and grief, things that would tear at the mind of any person. It's moments like these, when he is alone in the empty vacuum of his barely-lived-in flat, when the uncertainty and the questions grip him by the throat and refuse to let go.

He's not pathetic. He doesn't need a constant arm around him, a reassuring pat on the head or a sickly-sweet word to help him through the pain that the images, projected constantly onto the lids of his eyes, conjure up. As a child, he learnt to deal with his problems alone. He learnt that music is the only medium that will never deceive him and never let him down; the music never gets bored, is never too busy to listen to his pain, and will never try at false sympathy. The music is the only thing that he can truly rely on to help him through whatever twisted life he has descended into. Any other person may hire a counsellor or a read a self-help book, but in the throbbing material of the over-used speakers, Ianto has all he needs to cling to the edge of his lucidity.

Sometimes, all he needs to do is throw back his head and let the sound ricochet from his throat.

Sometimes, all he needs to do feel the rasp as the vibrations scrape across the flesh of his windpipe.

Sometimes, all he needs to do is sing to cover up the screaming in his heart.

At the end of the day, Ianto is just another singer with a song – but at least he's a survivor.

* * *

**I'm feeling very inspired today, so this update has been very quick. I think it's because I identify heavily with the Ianto I have portrayed in this one, so it came very naturally to me. It doesn't flow as easily as some other one-shots I have written, but that's because the subject matter is much more harsh and raw, at least to me. **

**Still, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/favourited/alerted this series. Feedback is an author's lifeforce, so I relish any comments or ideas you have for me. If you have an idea for a song you think it might be good for me to write, then don't hesitate to tell me. I have a few more planned and up my sleeve, so hopefully there should be some pretty regular updates headed your way. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Vanilla Twilight

**What Cannot Be Expressed**

**_"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul."_**

**~ Anon.**

**

* * *

**

**Title: Vanilla Twilight**

**Rating: T**

**Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Jack/Ianto. **

**Warnings: Heavily implied M/M relationship and some swears. **

**Summary: Losing Jack is like a dull ache gnawing at Ianto's stomach; but, even though he's gone, Ianto can feel him in the starlight...  
**

**A/N: This is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. It is by a band called Owl City, and I greatly recommend that you go and find it on YouTube, if only so you can have the same reaction to the lyrics as I do. I've never written anything set between Series 1 and 2 before, so this is a venture into the unknown for me.**

**

* * *

  
**

**Vanilla Twilight**

"_**The silence isn't so bad, till I look at my hands and feel sad, 'cause the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly…"**_

There is something incredibly revealing about starlight. Whilst the sun provides an endless blanket of light, starlight is more of a spotlight. It is musky, understated.

The thing about starlight is that it also reveals the shadows, and it is the shadows that truly define a person.

That's why Ianto often left the curtains of his flat open at night. As much as the sun was bright, it was also oppressive – it blinded with its intensity and crushed with its all-consuming glare. He loved the gentle shadow of the starlight, loved the feeling that finally he was being laid bear, open, honest and yet not vulnerable. The grey-ish glow creeping through his windows soothed him, indicating that there was _more_ out there than this tiny flat, in this plastic town, in this crumbling world.

Sprawled fully-clothed on his bed, Ianto cocked his head towards the gentle light sneaking through the glass. He had lost track of the amount of time he had spent staring at the ceiling, counting the flecks of cracked plaster and paint that he had never gotten around to fixing. It had happened a lot, this whole lying-awake business, since Jack had run away; focusing instead on the starlight making its way into his room was an adequate way of dulling whatever pain he was feeling.

It was an odd sort of pain, more like a dull ache contracting in his stomach, taking him by surprise when he was least expecting it. When he had lost Lisa – he still struggled to say the ominous word: _died_ – the pain had been an onslaught of agony tearing into him, as though someone had taken hold of his heart and was squeezing it tightly in their palm. He had felt it in every inch of himself, each cell shrieking with the grief that was tearing his mind and his body apart.

This was different. Maybe, in a way, it was harder.

At least after Lisa, he had known absolutely what it was he was missing. He had known what the pain meant, what it was, _why_ he was feeling it. _This_ was such an alien feeling to him, as if someone had cut a small hole in the pit of his stomach – he could feel the absence and he did not know how to fill it. It was so discreet, so hidden, that on a busy day he could ignore it, put it to the back of his mind as he carried on with the filing, organising and coffee-making that kept Torchwood's head above the water.

But it was guaranteed to sneak up on him, pouncing like some sort of snarling creature when he was least expecting it to happen. These were the times when his stomach would cramp, his muscles would clench, and his brain would scream at him that something, _somewhere_, was hurting. The first time it had happened, a few days after they had seen the footage of Jack sprinting towards that familiar blue box, it had crippled him; forced him to clutch at his stomach and steady his breathing, fingers scrunching up the yellowed documents he had been trying to sort.

It had passed as suddenly as it had arrived, but it had left him confused.

Now, three months after Jack's departure, he had taught himself to steady his reaction to the attacks; but that did not mean they had alleviated.

To be perfectly honest, there wasn't much for Ianto to mourn. He and Jack had never made any promises to each other, no pacts of fidelity and exclusiveness – perhaps it had gone deeper than just a shag, but there was no reason for Ianto to feel any real loss. He had, at the beginning, tried to tell himself that this was just the natural gut reaction to losing a friend, a boss, someone who _had_, there was no doubt, helped pull him out of the pathetic pit he had dug for himself following Lisa.

But it went deeper than that.

There was some feeling there, he could tell that now. He felt comfortable in his mind labelling Jack as his _lover_ rather than his boss, his friend, his fuck-buddy. And he was in no doubt that whatever underlying emotions had overtaken the sex, Jack had felt them too – you didn't kiss a fuck-buddy in front of your friends, especially not that damned _emotionally_. He had no real need to feel abandoned in that sense, no need to feel that he'd lost something.

After all, he knew where Jack was. You didn't work at Torchwood One without knowing of the Doctor. As a Junior Researcher, and an experienced charmer, he had managed to gain access to some of the more secure archives, meaning that he also knew of Jack's somewhat infamous history surrounding the elusive figure with the changing face.

Ianto clenched his hands against the bedclothes, the smooth yet ragged _open-close_ action reminding him of that absence that he was still finding it difficult to explain. In moments like these, when tiredness dulled his mind, he imagined calloused fingers slipping between his own, gripping tightly and reassuringly against his own skin. He didn't _need _it – but it was nice. He closed his eyes from the glare of the starlight, imagining those fingers creeping up his arm, along his shoulder, running softly yet tantalisingly through his hair...

Sex with Jack had always held an intimacy that none of the other one-night stands or casual shags he'd had before had invoked. The immortal was ultimately a sensual being, revelling in touch and connection, even if it was just for one night. It was a connection that Ianto had needed after fighting against human interaction for so long. With his eyes closed, Ianto felt that touch ghosting over him; rough fingertips, soft lips, ravenous tongue, searching out and mapping every inch of him.

Licking his lips and almost tasting Jack's breath on his face, Ianto forced his eyes open once again. The starlight was still streaking steadily and constantly through his window, creating strange shadows across his haphazardly arranged limbs. With the spectral-feel of Jack's fingers still ghosting over the skin between his own digits, Ianto felt a heady mix of sadness and happiness seep into his already foggy brain.

Jack was _out there_. Even if he never came back, he was always there in the starlight shining through his bedroom window. And, in the split second before his drooping consciousness closed off completely, Ianto felt a small smile quirk at the corner of his mouth.

_I can live with that._

_

* * *

_

**I don't why I'm quite so inspired at the minute. Maybe it's the fact that I now have a backbone to the one-shots I'm doing, basing them on the songs, and it's knowing that I now have it as a series that is encouraging me to finish them. Whatever it is, it's incredibly fulfilling. **

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. If you are lurking out there, I'd love it if you left me a review, as it always spurs me on to hear your feedback and suggestions. Remember, if you have any suggestions for songs I could use, don't hesitate to let me know**_. _**As always, thank you for reading my vents!**_  
_


	4. Kryptonite

**What Cannot Be Expressed**

**_"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul."_**

**~ Anon.**

**

* * *

**

**Title: Kryptonite  
Rated: M  
Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Jack/Ianto  
Warnings: Angsty M/M sex, quite a few swears.  
Summary: After 2,000 years buried under Cardiff, Jack Harkness crumbles; all Ianto can do is remind him what it means feel.  
A/N: This is a song called "Kryptonite" by a band called 3 Doors Down, and just seemed to fit the character of Jack that I am trying to write. I never felt Jack's experiences during Exit Wounds were properly explored, so this is my attempt at digging a little deeper. This story has been niggling at me for several weeks now, but it was only with this series, and being able to base its roots in the song, that I finally gathered up the courage to write it. I almost didn't post it, because writing sex-scenes scares me; I never want it to feel unnatural or gratuitous, so I hope this serves the right purpose and gets across what I wanted to get across. **

**

* * *

  
**

**Kryptonite**

"_**If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?"**_

There was a reason why Ianto brought Jack back to his flat that night.

Maybe it was something to do with the deadened look in the Immortal's eyes and the flecks of dirt still clinging to his hair. Maybe it was the red grazing on his knuckles, the skin decimated by the pressure of scouring Tosh's blood off the floor. Or maybe it was the gunshot that echoed throughout the Hub, the blood pooling on the floor of Jack's office and discarded pistols still smouldering in his cold fingers.

When they arrived at his flat, Jack sank lifelessly onto the sofa whilst Ianto busied himself making a coffee. To be honest, he would have preferred a stiff alcoholic drink, but something told him that getting drunk tonight was not the right thing to do; not the right thing for him or for Jack. He cast a quick glance in the direction of the sofa, catching a glimpse of Jack perched uncomfortably on the battered furniture, his shoulder blades hunched to his chin and his fingers tangling in his hair.

Ianto had never been particularly good at comforting. It had been one of the most painful things to tug at his heart when he was still hiding Lisa – watching her scream and cry, try to fight the monstrosity inside her, and unable to do or say anything to make it feel better. If she had had someone else, he had thought, maybe they could have alleviated the pain with their words, with their touch. Maybe, he had often told himself, she would have survived, would have been able to fight the cyber-technology successfully if only she had had someone who knew the right words.

But there was something about the sight of Jack before him, crumpled and broken, that urged him to leave the coffee-making – which had, admittedly, been an excuse to brush away the problem – and sit beside him with some trepidation.

"Jack…" he raised his hand tentatively to rest on Jack's shoulder. His fingers trailed gently over the rumpled material of his shirt, smoothing out the creases in the vain hope that that would make a difference. Jack remained silent, his head buried in his hands, pulling so hard at his hair that Ianto could see the skin at the roots reddening. The younger man licked his lips, waiting quietly.

Finally, Jack raised his head to look at Ianto, his gaze ricocheting from his eyes to his cheekbones, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze. Ianto felt his stomach plummet at the coldness in those eyes, the weight of a thousand years tugging on the irises; it seemed as though his eyes were drowning in themselves, their famous glimmer sunk beneath the waves of pain.

"Jack…" he repeated, all too aware of the uselessness of his words. He had told himself that he could handle Jack; flirtatious Jack, bastard Jack, guilty Jack; he could deal with them all, knew how to deflect the personalities and meet them head on. But this was very different, in that it didn't seem like Jack he was dealing with. Sometime, during those millennia buried beneath the soil of Cardiff, Jack's – _Jackness_ – had escaped into the soil. He felt a sharp pain fight in the back of his throat, stirred by a slight, irrational anger:

_You went once, you will NOT go again. _

Suddenly, as if he had read the words pooling in his eyes, Ianto felt Jack's hand on the back of his neck, his mouth forced onto the cold lips of his lover with a relentless urgency. Ianto closed his eyes and let Jack kiss him, allowing him to reacquaint himself with whatever it was he needed to reacquaint himself with. It had, after all, been two thousand years since Jack had last kissed him, something that it had been easy to forget amidst the grief that had suddenly descended on their lives. Ianto was surprised Jack had even been able to remember his name, let alone having any memory of the sketchy details surrounding whatever kind of connection they had forged.

Jack's kiss was clumsy, unnatural, as if he couldn't quite remember what he should be doing. Ianto felt his shoulders tense, sensing his obvious frustration and trepidation. Fearful that Jack was slipping away, he moved his hand from Jack's arm to his face, cupping his cheek and brushing a thumb gently over the jaw. Jack pulled back, an expression on his face that was impossible to read; Ianto smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and leant forward to capture Jack's lips slowly in his own, hoping that Jack would trust him to take control.

Feeling little response, but also little resistance, he tentatively ran his tongue along Jack's bottom lip, questions and uncertainties thrumming in the slightly awkward movement. The bottom of his stomach lifted a little as he felt Jack's mouth open slightly, allowing his tongue to brush in and over his teeth, keeping the movement as gentle as possible until he felt Jack's own tongue responding to his guidance.

"Ianto…" Jack murmured softly against his lips, obviously testing the vowels, rolling them on his tongue like some sort of foreign language. Ianto was struck by the suddenness of this change in the man – when Jack had freed them from the cells, he had seemed no different to the Jack they had left behind. He realised that somewhere, in between Tosh's death and Ianto finding him sprawled on the floor, blood pooling from the gunshot wound in his forehead, something in Jack's mind had snapped. All those millennia alone, suffocating and reviving, the weight of six feet of earth pressing down on his lungs, had caught up with him once the immediate danger was over. The moment Jack the Hero had no longer been needed (the moment Gwen had left the Hub – she still viewed him as a heroic figure, after all), Jack the Human had taken over.

Jack the Human was broken.

"Ianto…" Jack tried again, his voice more forceful than it had been before, as if the name was the key to something in his brain. "I need…I don't remember…" He scrambled for words, obviously missing something. Ianto, knowing that he himself was not much of a talker, waited patiently, his hand still framing Jack's cheek comfortably.

"I want…I need…but I can't remember how…" Jack's voice was pitiful, vulnerable, barely more than a whisper and cracking with invisible tears. He flicked his eyes to meet Ianto's, his hand tentatively reaching up to the long fingers caressing his face and travelling along the length of his arm; the uncertainty was almost unbearable, as if Jack expected either himself or Ianto to shatter into a million pieces. The immortal man had never been one who was good at expressing himself with words, and Ianto had quickly learnt the art of deciphering Jack just through his touches. And he understood.

Gripping his wrist, he stood up and drew Jack with him. Jack complied, his limbs pliable, like jelly almost. The Welshman took a step backwards, and then another, keeping his eyes intently fixed on Jack's face.

"Tell me what you want Jack," he whispered, barely noticing as his back grazed the doorframe of his tiny bedroom. "I need you to tell me what you want me to do."

Jack's eyes flickered from Ianto's face to the bed, his eyes pleading with Ianto. He closed his eyes and breathed in, gripping Ianto's sleeve with a vice-like grip. Ianto held his breath along with Jack, hoping that he was doing the right thing – hoping that he hadn't misinterpreted what it was that Jack wanted, what Jack _needed._ In a selfish part of Ianto's brain, there was a slight flicker at the thought that Jack needed _him_…

Watching intently as Jack opened his eyes again, he began to unbutton Jack's shirt and ease it slowly from his body, letting his fingers caress as gently as he could over the newly exposed skin of his arms and shoulder blades. When Jack didn't protest, he hooked his fingers under his white – now greyish brown – undershirt and inched it up, just enough so that he could run his the pads of his fingers gently over Jack's stomach. The Captain's eyes slid closed again gently as Ianto hand wandered along the waistline of his trouser, carding through the smattering of hair that grew from his naval downwards.

Ianto took this as a good sign, ghosting his fingers over the button of his trousers, sliding it through to loosen the garment from Jack's body. He moved slightly closer, pressing his cheek against Jack's, feeling a slight swelling against his thigh as Jack's pulse grew more frenetic.

"I need to know if this is what you want, Jack".

Jack's eyes opened, his hand inching to Ianto's own waist, un-tucking Ianto's shirt from his suit trouser and mimicking the actions of the younger man.

"I need to _feel,_" he whispered firmly into Ianto's ear. "I need to _know_ you."

Keeping his hands as steady as he possibly could with the weight of responsibility he felt on his shoulders, Ianto stripped Jack of the rest of his clothes, letting Jack help him remove his own before leading Jack to the bed and encouraging him to lie on his side. Jack's body tensed slightly as Ianto slipped behind him, looping an arm around his waist and pulling his back flush against his chest. Jack's breathing was catching, the lack of familiarity and his inability to remember by turns frustrating and terrifying him. Ianto was used to being the one taught by Jack, the one with the least comparative experience, and now those roles were completely reversed – it was a heavy responsibility, almost like taking Jack's virginity, a thought that would have seemed absurd if the weight of it wasn't so real.

Leaning to the bedside cabinet, he scrabbled around for the tube of lubricant he and Jack had stashed away for the rare and often unplanned moments when they decided to ditch the Hub for the modesty of his flat. Finding it beneath his fingers, he warmed it in his palm, pressing his nose into Jack's hair briefly and breathing in his scent. The familiar Jack smell was still there, masked slightly by the layer of dirt, and Ianto took some comfort in the familiarity that ran through his body as Jack's pheromones seemed to set his senses on fire. But he ignored his body's natural reaction, stopping himself.

"Are you sure?"

"Will you just shut up and fuck me?"

Ianto felt a small smile quirk the side of his mouth at the glimpse of the Jack that he knew, the Jack whose seemingly-perpetual sexual frustration created an almost childish impatience when it came to the bedroom. Jack was still in there, and that thought spurred him on as he gently slid a slick finger into Jack's entrance. Jack tensed around the digit, a hiss escaping his mouth as he was breached for the first time in a hundred lifetimes. He was incredibly tight, and his discomfort was clear – he hadn't had human contact for nearly two thousand years, a thought that even Ianto, who had spent a lot of his life avoiding intimacy in all its forms, could not bare to think about more than absolutely necessary. Even with this knowledge, the frown that appeared on Jack's face almost encouraged Ianto to stop, to pull out, to just lie there and hold him as tightly as possible. It would have been simpler, but the older man reached around, gripping his wrist to keep his hand in place and grunting softly:

"Keep going…I need this".

Sliding in another finger, Ianto pressed a gentle kiss against the back of Jack's neck, inwardly apologising for the discomfort he was causing, silently promising that it would get better, that it wouldn't hurt, that he just had to wait, to relax, to let him in. Jack seemed to pick up on Ianto's subliminal message, both in its physical and emotional meanings, doing his best to relax his body, letting the muscles around Ianto's fingers go slack and dropping his head back onto Ianto's shoulder. Continuing to stretch Jack as gently as he possibly could, Ianto inched forward to ghost his lips over Jack's, letting him respond in his own time, on his own terms, smiling softly around Jack's lips as he felt an exploratory tongue force its way into his mouth.

For a moment after realising that he had prepared Jack as much as he needed to, Ianto hesitated, a thousand thoughts flitting through his already overloaded brain. The loss that they had suffered washed over him, the grief crashing in his brain; his worry for his surviving teammates; for Gwen and her destroyed belief in goodness; for Jack and his crumbling mind trapped in a indomitable body; and, alongside them, the comparatively trivial question of whether he should be considering using a condom. Just how did you judge that kind of the thing in the impossible situation he was presented with? No sex-education counsellor had ever offered advice on safe sex with an immortal man - Ianto supposed he would just have to work it out for himself, something he was well used to doing. Jack had been buried for over two thousand years, had died countless times, there was no _chance_ that there was any danger. And, anyway, he wanted Jack to really _feel_ him inside of him.

With this thought in mind, he quickly slicked himself up and positioned himself behind Jack, his hand steadying Jack's hips and tilting him gently to make it as comfortable angle as possible for his lover, who was now fisting the bedclothes with a trembling hand. Easing himself in, he kept his other hand entwined in Jack's hair, stroking gently through the locks in what he hoped was a reassuring, calming measure. Jack himself kept his eyes squeezed shut as Ianto pushed into him, his face tense and a bead of sweat forming on his brow as his younger lover breached his body.

The moment he was completely filling Jack, Ianto stilled in him, waiting for some sense that he should continue. Jack held his breath for what appeared to Ianto to be an eternity, clenching uncomfortably around Ianto's cock. All Ianto wanted to do at that moment was move, to feel Jack against him, to alleviate the building pressure in his groin; but he was stronger than that, he told himself, and he was in control now. He remembered how careful Jack had been with him on their first encounter, how aware he was of his injuries sustained in the countryside, and yet at the same time willing to fulfil that desperate need to be held and touched and fucked into the mattress. Now that the impossible situation had arisen, that Ianto found himself in Jack's shoes, he knew he was willing to wait for as long as it took.

Finally, Jack moved his hand to slide over the fingers at his waist, gripping tightly onto Ianto's wrist and pushing his hips back into Ianto's groin. Pressing his lips once more into the short hair behind Jack's ear, Ianto began to move his hips, sliding his cock in and out of Jack as gently as was humanly possible. Jack's fingers laced with Ianto's on his hip as his breath hitched, the frown on his forehead contracting and tightening as Ianto filled him, before changing from pain to surprise as Ianto finally hit the right spot.

Hearing the gasp of surprise escape from Jack's lips, Ianto buried his face into his lover's neck and began to pick up his pace, hooking an arm around Jack's waist to fist around his cock. His movements around Jack contrasted to his movements within Jack; he couldn't find the right rhythm, instead opting for a random mix of _thrust-stroke_ movement that nonetheless encouraged just the right noises from Jack's lips.

He knew that any psychologist would warn against this. The notion that sex could heal wasn't one that he had ever really bought into; it hadn't been the sex that healed him following Lisa's death, following the pain and the grief and then the abominably unsuccessful team-bonding session to the country. That physical connection had helped, he had no doubt, but Ianto had had one night stands and casual fucks before. He knew that they didn't alleviate the pain - they cured the present problem, allowed him to forget for that moment, but the effects were fleeting. No, he could conclusively say that sex didn't work as therapy. But sex with Jack was different. Jack was a being stuck in a time that didn't understand him, a man who tossed aside the restrictions of labels and categories in favour of unconditional connections. He was rooted in the sensual, and every single encounter, sexual or none, was deeply intimate. Ianto had needed to be touched, to connect, to feel some sort of intimacy, and that was what Jack had offered.

Ianto wanted to give Jack exactly what Jack had given him; to remind him that, although he was lonely and isolated and broken beyond belief, he wasn't completely alone.

Jack tensed against him, reaching back to dig his nails into Ianto's thigh, his harsh, raspy breath an obvious sign that he wasn't going to last much longer. With one last thrust of his cock into Ianto's hand, Jack found his release with a resigned sigh, succumbing completely to the sheer physicality chasing away the screaming in his brain. Feeling the muscles of Jack's body relax completely for the first time that evening, Ianto propped himself up slightly on his elbow, pulling Jack towards him to lift his hips ever so slightly, eager to join Jack as quickly as possible in his completion. With a few more frantic thrusts into Jack's pliant body, he felt the tightness coiling in his stomach build and release, muffling the low groan in Jack's hair as a he was hit by a crushing wave of _pleasure-pain-grief. _

The sound of their breathing gradually slowing was the only sound that filled the air as they came down, Ianto reluctantly pulling out of Jack and resting his cheek against his shoulder. An incredible stillness filled the air, a relaxed aura the emanated from both the men as they lay as still and as close as possible; there was no doubt that something had been gained, something had been learned, but they were at a loss to accurately describe what that something was. As it always had between them, Ianto noted, the silence spoke louder than any shallow words could possibly have done.

Finally Ianto managed to summon enough energy to work his limbs properly, rolling out from their tangled limbs and heading to the bathroom. Emerging with a towel, he quickly cleaned them both up before sliding back into the bed, rearranging their limbs so they were more comfortable. Jack lay still with his eyes closed, hardly responding to Ianto's touch as the younger man curled around him, waiting patiently, but worriedly, for some sort of response.

Eventually the young Welshman felt calloused fingers curl around the hand that was rested on Jack's stomach. It wasn't much in the way of movement or communication, but it reassured him that Jack wasn't gone, that they hadn't made the wrong decision in trying to reconnect in this way.

"Ianto," the word sounded more familiar now, rolling nicely off the tongue, the vowels lilted in just the way that made Ianto feel _known_. "I think I need your help."

Ianto felt one side of his mouth pull upwards in a small smile as he gripped Jack's arms gently, turned him around so that the Captain was sprawled floppily against his chest.

"Y'know, someone once told me that you can't be helped unless your help yourself."

Jack tilted his head, a mischievous look flickering in his eyes. The last time Ianto had seen that look had been this morning, just before they got the news that alien life had been detected in an abandoned building. That look that was both enticing and playful, that look that had been thrown at him as he brought the coffee to Jack, just before everything went to hell and their lives had been turned upside down.

Ianto rubbed small circles into Jack's back, ghosting his fingers over the now relaxed muscles of his spine in a soothing movement. His eyes were still fixed intently on Jack's face, registering every twitch of his muscles, ever flicker in his eye. He knew that this wasn't the end, wasn't the solution; he hadn't fixed Jack by fucking him. Maybe he'd helped, but there was still a long way to go. The process of rebuilding was a long one. Ianto knew how much it had taken to drag himself back to some semblance of sanity, even if it was hard to compare his loss with the thousand losses that Jack mourned, all those millions of losses that had yet to happen.

For now, though, Jack was _here_, in body and in spirit. There were still flecks of dirt clinging to his hair and skin, still a dullness dragging his eyes downwards, signalling that there was a constant force tugging at his lucidity; Jack was clinging desperately to the edge of his mental soundness, and the memories were stamping relentlessly on his fingers, trying to loosen his grip. But he was definitely _here._ Ianto tightened his arms around Jack, feeling the other man rest his cheek over his heart, the rhythm almost like a lullaby, reminding him that Ianto was still here.

This was Jack as human as he could possibly be. But, even so, he would always be a hero. Even if he lost his mind, his memories, his sanity, the sacrifices he made daily in order to try and protect the people of this city, in a time that didn't even take the time to try and understand him, would always mean he was a hero. Even if he was just a hero to Ianto, to Gwen, to the memories of Tosh and Owen, then he was more of a hero than anyone else Ianto knew.

Jack was a hero because he was so damned human and yet _he always kept going_.

This man with his head rested above Ianto's heart, clinging desperately to him as if he were a drowning man in need of oxygen, this man who had forgotten what it was like to be touched, this man who had been stretched to the very brink of his strength and had snapped.

Even when he crumbled, Jack Harkness was still a hero in the eyes of those that loved him most.

And he always would be.

* * *

***Is cowering in fear because she just posted a sex scene* **

**Thank you once again for reading, commenting, or both! All mistakes are mine, as are any cliches, bad characterisation or basic crapness. **


End file.
